Cents and Sensibility

Junior Smith has an odd savings plan,

yielding no interest. Still, the guy can

lay his fingers on every red cent.

Each copper penny that he has not spent

rests within the old urn by his bed.

Not enough cash there to go to his head,

but, over his lifetime, Junior has learned:

A penny saved is a penny urned.

Copyright ©2018, Paul H. Harder II

This poem is licensed under a Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0 License.

Logic Fault

A New England lawyer near Ivy League schools,

defender of hapless professors,

had clients who tended to break all the rules,

thereby much enhancing his treasure.

A mathematician without a degree

was one of his more daunting clients.

The judge found him guilty and wrote the decree:

“Deriving with no valid license.”

Copyright ©2018, Paul H. Harder II

This poem is licensed under a Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0 License.

The Harder Boys' Field

Below our house lay a tiny field,

just large enough for a tiny yield,

sometimes corn, but in most years fallow.

Mom might plant rhubarb or potato,

but the Little Blue would frequently

escape from its banks; we boys would see

crawdads and fish in our short-term lake.

Mom said stay clear for fear of a snake,

so, from milk crates, concrete blocks, and plank,

We built a pier to jut from the bank.

One time, my Granddad hired a dowser,

but dowsing rods did not find water.

It was quite clear, he had no powers.

Most of the time, that field was ours:

a place for ball games and toy gun fights,

cowboys and Indians, windy kite flights.

Google Earth now shows our house is gone,

and Granddad's place, too, is just a lawn.

But, amid new trees, the field remains

with, I hope, some new children's campaigns.

Copyright ©2018, Paul H. Harder II

This poem is licensed under a Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0 License.